


Sherlock's First Case

by ClaireBHypno



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, BAMF John Watson, M/M, Military Kink, Military Uniforms, Sherlock's first case, Young Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2015-09-22
Packaged: 2018-03-13 08:08:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3374066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaireBHypno/pseuds/ClaireBHypno
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock is bored, he gets in trouble... so much trouble, he gets sent by the courts to a boot-camp for troubled young men, where he meets Captain John Watson - a young army officer who is home on leave, recuperating from being shot in Afghanistan.  John provides Sherlock with his first case, in an effort to alleviate his boredom and make a difference, and Sherlock reacts... enthusiastically... to his new mentor, giving John a few moral concerns...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sherlock joins the camp

**Author's Note:**

> I've set John and Sherlock's ages as only five years or so apart, the camp is for young men aged 18-25,with Sherlock being at the upper end of this range.

Monday, oh-six-hundred: Captain John H Watson strode purposefully across the camp, glancing up every few steps from the clipboard in his hand – it wouldn’t do to trip up in front of his new charges because he wasn’t paying attention to his surroundings. He ran his finger down the list of names of the lads coming in; not that he could get much information from the names alone, but one of them caught his eye. What sort of name was Sherlock Holmes, anyway? And why would someone with a name that screamed money and privilege be court mandated to attend an army run boot-camp?

John knew he was young to be running this sort of camp, only a few years older than the oldest of the 18-25 year olds he was in charge of, but that was precisely why he’d been put in charge. His commanding officer believed he’d be able to relate to the lads better than the Sergeant Major who’d been in charge up until his retirement last year, and besides, John needed somewhere to finish recuperating after he’d been shot during his last tour in Afghanistan. The duty wasn’t terribly onerous, and helping these troubled young men appealed to him, fitting well with his caring medical background.

John sighed, and slammed open the door to the dormitory, stepping smartly out of the way as it bounced loudly off the wall, startling the 12 young men he had observed sleeping in various poses in the camp beds arranged along each side of the barracks. John’s head swung back, and he reassessed the situation. 11 young men sleeping, one lounging indolently on his camp bed, reading… something in Latin, by the look of it, and he hadn’t moved a muscle when the door had slammed.

“Right you lot! Time to get your lazy arses out of bed, come on, move it!!” John put on his best Captain’s voice, feigning an authority he wasn’t sure he felt. A chorus of groans rose from the beds, and heads began appearing from under blankets, sleepy-eyed and slightly anxious. They’d all arrived late the previous night, and John was sure that none of them had gotten to sleep until the early hours of the morning. “You have one hour! That’s sixty minutes, gentlemen, to get showered, shaved, dressed and breakfasted, then I expect to see you on the parade ground at oh-seven-hundred sharp!” More groans greeted that announcement, and blankets started to be shoved back, feet emerging to be placed on the cold floor. The young man reading the book hadn’t moved at all. John decided not to do anything at the moment, except give him the chance to arrive at the parade ground on time. 

Oh-six-fifty-five: John was observing the parade ground from the window of his office; he would be there exactly at oh-seven-hundred and not a minute before. So far nine of the twelve were in place, dressed identically in shined black combat boots, camouflage trousers, and olive green t-shirts. John continued to watch as number ten and eleven ran up, looking around nervously to make sure they weren’t late; he’d obviously made an impression on the group. The only one missing was the reader. John sighed, he hoped the lad wasn’t going to be trouble, but it was looking increasingly likely. He gathered up his clipboard and pen, made his way out of the office towards the parade ground, locking the door securely behind him, and rounded the corner just as his watch beeped the hour. There were twelve young men waiting for him.

He kept them busy for the next five hours, running drills, doing push-ups, chin-ups, assault courses and anything else he could think of to exhaust them; the real hard work would start that afternoon as he began to teach them a skill, something they could be proud of themselves for achieving, something that would allow them to start to have a little pride in themselves, maybe begin to turn around their low opinion of themselves and change their behaviour. Mostly it was working, the lads were too tired to do anything except what he asked them to do… Mostly.

The reader was giving John some trouble; he wasn’t blatantly defiant, but instead did what he was required to do with the absolute minimum of effort, and a terminally bored expression on his pale face. What was worse, though, was that he seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of energy; where the other lads had dropped to the ground panting after their 20 laps round the parade ground, the reader had lounged lazily against the wall in the shade, waiting for the next instruction with a smirk on his rosebud lips. John suspected the tried and tested methods employed by the boot-camp were not going to work well here; they were based on knocking down dodgy foundations of low self-esteem and lack of self-respect, then building each young man up into a stronger person, with skills he could be proud of, and a determination to do something good. Unfortunately, the reader seemed to have enough self-esteem and self-confidence for the entire group, and John suspected he would not respond well to anyone trying to break that down and rebuild it. Most of these lads had gotten in trouble, John knew, because they felt like they didn’t belong; getting into trouble gave them a gang of fellow troublemakers that to all intents and purposes became their family. An incredibly dysfunctional family, one that was about as bad for them and their future as it was possible to be, but a feeling of family nevertheless. The reader didn’t seem the type to need a sense of belonging, and John resolved to learn a bit more about him.

Twelve-hundred hours: As John’s watch beeped noon, he gathered the group together, and sent them for lunch in the canteen hall, with strict instructions to be back in the large classroom next to the parade ground at 1 pm sharp. He turned on his heel and marched over to the Officer’s mess, deciding to grab some lunch and then spend half an hour or so reading up on his charges. It always helped to know a little something about them, it gave him a chance to build a relationship if there was a little common ground, and John was still young enough that he could usually find some. Sandwich in hand, he reached for his keys to unlock the door to his office, and paused, surprised and angry to see the door was already ajar. He swung the door open, stepping through, and found one of his charges sitting in his chair, feet up on the desk, reading one of the files from his securely locked filing cabinet.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” he yelled furiously. The file dropped, and the curly black haired, pale faced reader was revealed, looking utterly perplexed at the question. “I’m reading my file. Don’t worry, I haven’t violated anyone’s privacy, I’ve only read my own.” He rolled his eyes, as though John’s question was the most unreasonable thing anyone had ever said to him. In less than a minute, John was across the room, snatching the file from his hands, and throwing the feet from his desk. “What about my privacy?” he roared angrily. “This door was locked, how the hell did you get in?”

“Well if you were serious about keeping people out, you’d have gotten a decent lock put on the door, I mean, anyone could get through this, it took me 30 seconds, and that was using a piece of old fuse wire…” His voice tailed off. “Not… good?”

Twenty-hundred hours: With all the lads safely tucked up in their beds, John sat back in his chair, glass of whiskey in one hand, and the reader’s file in the other. At least now he knew who the ridiculous name belonged to. He scanned through the biographical information; Sherlock William Scott Holmes, 24. Parents both deceased, car accident 12 years ago, raised by older brother with the even more ridiculous name of Mycroft Holmes, who was a minor official in the British Government, whatever that meant. Educated at six, no seven different boarding schools in three years, he’d left school at the earliest possible opportunity, then come to the attention of the courts for a number of different offences; trespass, breaking and entering, and on one memorable occasion, attempted theft of a human body part from a hospital morgue. John flicked to the reports from the various schools, without fail they said the same thing: “Sherlock is a gifted student, but is easily bored.” “Sherlock has a brilliant analytical mind, but needs to learn to respect authority.” “Sherlock needs more stimulation than we are able to give him.”

The pattern was beginning to become clear, John had known people like Sherlock before. Boredom was their biggest problem, so much going on in the brain that they needed to be doing something to shut the noise out, and they were not the kind of people who were stimulated by watching Eastenders or Big Brother. He started to try and work out what approach he could take with the lad. Analytical brain…. John sat up sharply; he’d suddenly remembered the spate of thefts that had happened in the other dorm over the last month or so - the intakes were staggered so all of the lads were still in the camp, for another two weeks or so, anyway – it might keep Sherlock’s brain as occupied as John was aiming to keep his body… That thought made John smirk; it wasn’t as though he hadn’t noticed Sherlock’s body in the day or so he’d known him, those trousers were very tight around the arse, and the heat had made the t-shirts cling like a second skin… Most of the lads had a trace of beer gut or puppy fat left, but Sherlock was lean. He had a toned stomach with surprisingly muscular arms and thighs and the most luscious arse John had ever clapped eyes on, and that was saying something considering the fitness levels of the rest of his unit out in Afghanistan… He mentally shook himself; legally there was no problem; both men were over the age of consent, but morally might be a different matter… He was sure his CO would not take kindly to John taking advantage of a vulnerable young man in his care… even though “vulnerable” was about as far a description as you could get from what Sherlock Holmes was.

John made his way over to the Officer’s Club, there was a chance that Henderson might still be up. Henderson was his opposite number, looking after the other group, and as luck would have it, he was just leaving as John arrived. After a quick chat in the corridor, Henderson agreed to allow Sherlock to see what he could come up with, promising to speak to Lestrade and Donovan, the two MPs that had been investigating the thefts. “Great,” thought John, “ all I have to do now is persuade Sherlock!”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets started on his investigation, and immediately starts crossing lines that shouldn't be crossed. John's reaction puts him into a moral quandry...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks go to Catherine for suggesting one of John's lines x Hope you enjoy this, please leave comments, if you'd like to :0)
> 
> For anyone that doesn't know, MP = Military Police.

Tuesday, oh-six-hundred: John slammed open the door to the dormitory, stepping out of the way of its recoil. Before he had the chance to speak, heads began to appear from under blankets, feet slid out from the warm depths of beds, and groans issued from sleepy mouths. “I’m pleased to see you’re all getting the idea!” he shouted. “Oh-seven-hundred, on the parade ground! Holmes, with me.” He spun on his heel, not waiting to see if his order would be followed or not, and left the dormitory, heading for his office. Sherlock unfolded himself from the bed and loped after him. He was already dressed, having grabbed a couple of hours sleep around 2 am and then headed for the shower. He’d spent some time walking the camp, unlocking doors for the fun of it, climbing walls to see what was on the other side, getting the feel of the place. Over the last two days, he’d spent so much time exploring that he was now confident he could get from any point in the camp to any other in less than five minutes, and through pretty much any door he chose. The CO’s door was proving to be a bit tricky, but given time, Sherlock was sure he could crack it.

He followed John down the corridor and into the office, throwing himself into a chair at John’s invitation. “You’re bored,” John stated flatly. “It’s only a matter of time until you really get yourself in trouble, and this is your last hope – after that it’s prison. Is that what you really want?” Sherlock swallowed hard. “Of course I’m bored, people are so stupid! I can’t imagine what it’s like in their funny little brains! I don’t want to go to prison, but I don’t know what else to do, sometimes I think I’ll go insane from boredom!”

“I may have the answer…” John explained his idea, and Sherlock managed to keep quiet long enough to let him. “So I can have access to everything I need to investigate? I can interview the others?” John nodded, smiling. “When can I start?” John’s face became serious. “You still have an obligation to fulfil your court mandated sentence, but I’m prepared to give you two hours each afternoon. You obviously don’t need the kind of therapy the others do, so there’s no point in forcing you to do it; it’ll just make you worse, right?” Sherlock smiled sheepishly. “Then I can spare you for a couple of hours, BUT… You have to stay out of trouble, okay? The first time I hear you’re giving anyone any lip, I’ll pull you off the investigation so fast your head will spin!”

Sixteen-hundred hours: That afternoon saw Sherlock heading for the other dormitory, where he’d arranged to meet Lestrade and Donovan, the two MPs who had been investigating the thefts. Lestrade was a muscular man, with the build of a rugby player; Sherlock thought he’d seen him on he pitch the previous morning while they’d been running laps of the parade ground. Donovan was a little younger than Sherlock himself, and, Sherlock noted, female. For all his exploring, Sherlock hadn’t yet seen any women in the camp, but he’d deduced that there must be some around. As for Donovan being an MP, it wasn’t that unusual these days, there were females enlisted in the army now, so it stood to reason that some would be MPs. They’d almost have to be, for matters of decency and privacy in the event of any women being arrested; male officers couldn’t conduct body searches and the like.

As Sherlock started to look through the contents of the lads’ lockers, Lestrade began to explain the facts. In the three weeks since the other group had been in the camp, there had been eleven thefts of different items; money, iPods, little things that were easy to conceal, all taken from the dormitory. There hadn’t been any thefts before the group had arrived, so Lestrade and Donovan were working on the assumption that it was one of the group. Of the twelve, two had been sent on the program for drugs related assaults, four for vandalism, three for persistent graffiti, and three for breaking and entering and theft. Of those three, one had been sick in the infirmary at the time of one of the thefts, one had been on supervised punishment at the time of one of the others. For this reason, Lestrade explained, he and Donovan were concentrating on the third, Bateson, as their main suspect. He was strenuously denying any involvement, and they had been unable to find any of the stolen items in Bateson’s possession, or anywhere else for that matter; the theory was that Bateson had already managed to sell them, so until something turned up or another theft happened, they weren’t able to take much action. Lestrade handed Sherlock the file with the detailed accounts of the thefts, saying, “Of course, we have also considered the possibility that the other two were working together, so their alibis become irrelevant at that point…”

Sherlock flicked through the file, skimming each report in turn, taking in every detail. “No. There was no deviation in the methodology whatsoever; if it was two people working together, they were together for every theft. No, you’re looking for one person. I need to speak to your suspect.”

Sherlock followed Lestrade into his office, took one look at Bateson sitting hunched over in the chair, and barked “No! He’s not your man, just look at his hair!” Lestrade’s mouth fell open, his gaze swinging from Sherlock to Bateson and back again. “His hair? What are you talking about?”

“Oh for God’s sake, look! His hair has been trimmed every four weeks, regular as clockwork. It’s in the latest style, and that's only been fashionable for the last few weeks, he must have had it cut just before he arrived. He has designer t-shirts and jeans in his locker, but his footwear leaves a little to be desired. His trainers are cheap market knock-offs in the style of the most popular trainers on the market now, did you think if he’d managed to sell the items he wouldn’t have had the opportunity to buy the real McCoy? No, if Bateson had committed the thefts, he’d be wearing the real thing, not the knock-offs. It’s not Bateson, you’re looking in the wrong place.” Sherlock swept out of the room, leaving Lestrade, Donovan and Bateson staring after him, open mouthed.

Twenty-hundred hours: John sat back in his chair, taking a sip of whisky, and reflecting on the day. Sherlock had been like a different person, he had managed to refrain from insulting anyone, and while his attitude hadn’t exactly been helpful, the disdainful hostility had almost gone. John knew he couldn’t ask for much more, and was just congratulating himself on how well his idea seemed to be working when his door slammed open and Sherlock himself walked in, causing John to splutter on his whisky. “I need the enlisted men’s files,” he said, with no preamble.

“Sherlock, you’re supposed to knock and wait!” John yelled angrily. “And you can’t have the files, they’re private, as you very well know!” Sherlock strode further into the room, pulling at the drawers in the filing cabinets, determined to get the information he needed in whatever way possible. John was on his feet immediately, grabbing Sherlock by the neck of his t-shirt with his left hand, and Sherlock’s wrist with his right, twisting it up behind his back, spinning Sherlock round, and planting his face firmly in the top of his desk. As he spun round, Sherlock’s left arm flew behind him, ending up laid along his side, with his hand tucked between John’s leg and his own.

“I told you before, those files are private!” John yelled, breathing hard with anger. For a short man, he had a surprising strength, and Sherlock found himself very effectively immobilised, with John’s weight pushing him down, and one of John’s thighs pushed between his own, meaning John’s crotch was pushed firmly up against Sherlock’s arse. John’s desk was a little lower than standard, meaning Sherlock’s head was pushed down lower than his hips, which had the effect of arching his back and pushing his hips out, straight into John’s cock. Sherlock rolled his hips and moaned, and rubbed his trapped hand along the inside of John’s thigh, brushing over his balls. With the effect that Sherlock’s moan had, it might as well have been directly wired to John’s cock, he went from flaccid to hard in seconds, and couldn’t prevent himself snapping his hips into Sherlock’s arse, feeling the friction along his shaft.

“You’re so hard,” Sherlock breathed, rolling his hips again and sending another bolt of arousal through John.

“No shit, Sherlock!!” John agreed, slowly thrusting his hips, feeling the friction along his cock again. At that moment they heard the sound of voices outside in the corridor, and John came back to his senses – what sort of trouble would he be in if anyone caught him in this position? Not to mention the trust he was breaking… He let go of Sherlock immediately, stepping back and running his hands through his short, blonde hair, rubbing over his face and breathing hard. Sherlock pushed himself up from the desk, eyes heavy with arousal, and obviously not the slightest bit bothered about any noises happening outside the room. He reached for John, who stepped back, raising his hands in front of him and shaking his head. “You need to leave, Sherlock, you shouldn’t be here!”

Sherlock took another step towards him, and John scooted round the desk, placing it between the two men. “Look, just go, I’ll see what I can do to get you access to the files, okay, but we are not doing this. It’s not right!” He saw the momentary hurt in Sherlock’s eyes, before the emotional barriers came down again, and he turned and left the room without another word. John sank into his chair and laid his head in his hands. What the hell was he going to do? He couldn’t deny it any more, he was definitely attracted to this clever young man, and it seemed as if the attraction was mutual, but there were rules about this sort of thing! It was difficult enough trying to have a relationship with one of the other enlisted men, someone who was on an equal footing with John, but one of these troubled young men in a program John was in command of? It was unthinkable, and to say morally questionable was an understatement.

John sat back in his chair, and slammed his head into the seat back once or twice in the hope that it would suddenly make everything magically clear to him, and give him the perfect solution to his situation. It didn’t. All that happened was he ended up with a sore spot on the back of his head from the chair’s frame, and a raging headache to match the throb in his cock, because for all his moral soul searching, John was still thoroughly, insistently aroused...


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John dreams of the previous day's events with Sherlock, but his imagination takes him where his conscious mind is afraid to go. Sherlock realises something about John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Catherine, my wonderful beta, watch out for those knitted condoms!

Oh-four-hundred hours: As John slept, he dreamed… The dream started as nothing more than an ordering of the events of the previous day, a preparation of the events of the next…. But before long, Dream-John found himself in the office with Dream-Sherlock pinned to the desk beneath him, and the corridors outside the room silent and empty. This time, he allowed himself to act on his feelings; shifting his feet over to line himself up properly with Sherlock’s arse, and grinding his hips slowly forward, pressing Sherlock into the desk. The younger man pushed back enthusiastically, moaning softly, and trying to free his pinned arm.

“Oh no you don’t,” growled John, grabbing his other hand too, and holding both wrists firmly in the arch of Sherlock’s back. John could see Sherlock’s eyes slam shut and his breathing deepen, and the moan he let out had John snapping his hips forward once more. John bent forward, his lips to Sherlock’s ear.

“One chance to change your mind, Holmes,” he said softly, “just say the word and I’ll let you up, we’ll say no more about it.” He softened his grip on Sherlock’s arms, giving him the opportunity to pull them from John’s grip, and pulled his hips back from Sherlock, who said something John didn’t catch.

“Hmmm?” John asked, leaning back towards Sherlock again. Sherlock raised his upper body from the desk slightly, enough to allow him to turn his head to face John. His eyelids opened, revealing pale eyes with pupils blown wide open, focused directly on John’s own bright blue eyes.

“Please… Sir…” Sherlock said, his voice rough with arousal, and he rolled his hips, grinding his arse against John’s throbbing cock. John sucked in a breath of air and hissed loudly. He grabbed the bottom of Sherlock’s olive green t-shirt and pulled it from the camouflage trousers, pulling it up over his pinned arms. Both men knew that Sherlock was more than capable of freeing himself if he should choose to, but the illusion of Sherlock’s helplessness ramped up both mens’ arousal…

John’s hands tugged roughly at Sherlock’s hips, lifting them from the desk and giving him access to the button and zip at his fly. He pulled at the coarse fabric, hearing the button pop loose and ping across the room. One sharp tug saw Sherlock’s trousers bunching around his knees, the tight black fabric of his underwear snug around the plump cheeks of his arse. John ran one hand appreciatively over the stretched fabric, then abruptly grabbed the waistband and yanked it all the way down, exposing Sherlock’s skin. He felt the younger man shiver despite the warmth of the room, and knew it was the excitement of exposure. John stepped back a couple of paces, leaving Sherlock bent over the desk, that delectable arse on display to the world. Using his booted foot, he spread Sherlock’s legs apart until the trousers around his knees stopped them moving any further. John could see a glimpse of the dark shadow between Sherlock’s buttocks, and after what felt like an interminable age he stepped forwards again. John rubbed his hand roughly along the cleft as Sherlock moaned, arching his back like a cat, and pushed himself back onto John’s hand.

Sherlock stood quietly in the corner of John’s room, observing him in the faint light of the oncoming dawn. This was not the first time he had stood here, watching the young soldier sleep, wondering what was going on inside his head. Two nights previously, he had watched as John had whimpered, calling out in obvious distress to a fallen brother in arms. Sherlock had deduced that he was reliving the day he had been pinned down in a firefight, desperately trying to save his friends before being taken down by an enemy bullet himself. Sherlock had watched silently as John had tossed his head on the pillow, face screwed up in desperation, sweat pouring from his brow as he frantically tried to escape from the memory.

Tonight though… tonight was different, John was again bathed in sweat, his face and bare chest shining in the little light coming into the room, but his expression was one of arousal. As Sherlock continued to watch, John pushed at the light blanket covering him, and exposed the trail of golden hair at the bottom of his abdomen which ran down into the grey cotton of his pyjama bottoms, currently tented by an impressive erection. Sherlock watched, unable to tear his gaze away as John palmed his cock over the thin fabric and squeezed the hard flesh beneath his hand, hips thrusting upwards. Sherlock felt himself react, the tight knot of arousal at the base of his spine flooding through his groin, and he pulled at his trousers, adjusting his uncomfortably constricted erection. John moaned, talking in his sleep as he thrust lazily into his hand.

“Sh’lock… You want this? Tell me how much you want this….” Sherlock started, sure for a split second that John had woken and caught him there, in his room, but then he realised that John was still asleep, and must therefore be dreaming of him. Sherlock quietly undid his button and zip, slipping his hand inside his underwear to close firmly around his erection, and stepped carefully closer to John. He knelt with his full lips close to John’s head, and whispered, “I want it so much… please…. Give it to me…”

John’s hand scrabbled at his pyjamas, pushing the fabric down his hips, and grabbed his cock in his hand. John’s breathing grew more erratic, and his hips thrust more urgently upwards, until he was fucking his hand. Sherlock stroked faster, his thumb rubbing across the blunt tip of his cock and spreading the free-flowing pre-come over the silky skin of his shaft, lubricating it.

“Sh’lock… I’m gonna fuck you so hard, I’m gonna fill you…” With a sudden grunt, John was coming; moaning and gasping. Sherlock watched transfixed, trying to stop his own moans escaping him by stuffing his free hand into his mouth and biting down on the knuckles. He was suddenly aware of the danger; John’s orgasm might well awaken him, and Sherlock would be caught in the captain’s room in the middle of the night, cock in hand, wanking over him. The thought pushed him over the edge, and there was nothing he could do to stop his own orgasm, Sherlock’s semen mixing with John’s on John’s bare chest.

Gasping for breath, Sherlock quickly stuffed his cock back inside his underwear, and not even stopping to do up his trousers, he fled from the room as quickly and quietly as he could, pausing when he was a safe distance away to do them up properly. He made it back to the dorm without incident, and lay down on his bed, gulping in air, trying to calm his racing heartbeat. He was in no doubt at all now, that the attraction was mutual, and he settled himself down to solve the problem of what he could do about it.

Dream-John thrust one last time into Dream-Sherlock’s arse, spilling his seed deep inside his tight heat, feeling Sherlock’s orgasm pulsing around him. He collapsed down onto the younger man beneath him, hands gripping his hips tightly, and the dream began to fade. John stirred slightly as the wetness on his chest began to chill him, grabbing at the blanket and pulling it up as he rolled over, satisfied and drifting back into a deep and dreamless sleep.

Oh-five-hundred hours: John snapped awake, and shoved back the blankets, looking down at his chest as he became aware of the tight skin there.

“Oh fuck…” he groaned, as he saw the disarray of his pyjamas and realised he must have climaxed in the night. He was perversely impressed with the spread of semen; he reasoned it must have been a huge orgasm to have covered him so completely, and he was both surprised it hadn’t woken him and a little disappointed that he didn’t remember whatever had triggered it. He showered efficiently and dressed, heading to the lads’ dormitory at oh-six-hundred as usual. As the door banged open, heads and feet began appearing from under their blankets; all except Sherlock, who was sound asleep for the first morning since arriving. As John called his usual reminder to the occupants of the dormitory, Sherlock roused and sat up, but would not look John in the eye, instead flushing pink and gazing down at the floor. John thought it a little strange, but not as strange as his own desire to see those pale eyes looking back at him….


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock can't concentrate for thinking of the night he watched John Watson... and it's affecting The Work. He finds a way to relieve his frustration and has a breakthrough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With many thanks to my beta, Catherine, as usual... Please leave your comments, I'd love to hear from you!

Sixteen-hundred hours: It was three days after he had stood by John Watson’s head in his room in the middle of the night and released his orgasm over the man’s chest. In the small, cramped and windowless office he’d been given to use, Sherlock Holmes was frustrated. He shoved the chair back from the desk, stretched out his long legs and steepled his hands beneath his chin, sighing. He regarded the piles of paperwork in front of him, stacks of enlisted men’s and women’s files that he had sorted earlier in the afternoon. He had removed the files of those who could not possibly have committed the thefts because they had been off base at the time, those who had been seen by at least two different people in another part of the camp at the time of at least one of the thefts, and the women, who were not able to get into the men’s quarters. Sherlock had started with nearly four hundred files, which he had reduced to just six, and there he had hit a problem. Sherlock could not stop thinking about Captain John H Watson, and that meant he could not think about the problem.

The more time he spent thinking about Captain Watson, the more his arousal made itself known to him. Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in his chair, adjusting his hard cock in his trousers, trying to make himself more comfortable and failing miserably. He mentally shook himself, picking up a couple of the files again, and attempted to concentrate once more. Privates Pugh and Davies both looked like trouble, he thought, but he wasn’t certain that either of them had had anything to do with the thefts…. but he couldn’t be sure, and therein lay the frustration. He was usually much better at seeing the patterns, deducing the chain of events, but it seemed as though most of his brain was taken up with thoughts of the muscular blonde Captain, and the way he had looked during his orgasm. This, Sherlock thought sourly, left about the same amount of brainpower for the problem as “so-called normal people”. Sherlock had not experienced this before. He had been attracted to other people, but the attraction had never been strong enough to be anything other than temporary. There was only one conclusion, he decided, if he could gain some… relief… he might be able to think about the case.

Sherlock stood, listening for a moment. The corridor outside was silent; everyone was busy elsewhere, so Sherlock undid the button of his trousers and slid the zip down. He groaned with relief, and thought fleetingly that it might be enough for him to be comfortable, but soon realised that would not be the case. He palmed his cock through the black stretch cotton of his underwear, hissing as his touch sent sparks through his entire body. He dragged his hand along the length from the root to the tip, moaning involuntarily, and shoved his hand inside his underwear. Sherlock gripped his hard cock, sliding his hand slowly along its length, his hips thrusting into his hand. His eyes closed, and his breathing deepened, as the precome started to flow from the tip. Inside his mind, Sherlock replayed the sight he had seen in John’s room; he remembered the sheen of sweat on John’s brow as he had thrust into his hand. He heard John saying those filthy things, vowing to fuck him and fill him, and Sherlock’s moans grew louder. He felt the tingling start in the base of his spine, and thrust harder, gripping tighter.

“Sherlock, I found this and…” John’s voice shocked Sherlock’s eyes open, as he shoved open the door and entered the room. Sherlock suddenly realised he hadn’t locked the door, and he was standing in front of the Captain with his cock in his hand, moments away from an orgasm. He let out a strangled squeak, and turned his back, desperately trying to stuff his cock back into his underwear and to do his trousers up, but he was so aroused, so _hard_ , that he knew it wasn’t going to happen. There was a moment of silence and then the door closed. Sherlock’s shoulders slumped with relief; he knew it would be awkward later in the day when he had to go and find the captain again to see what he’d been bringing, but he could think about that later. He was too close to stop now, despite what had just happened, so he gripped himself again, and began to stroke, imagining that John had stayed and what he might say, when he heard the key turn in the lock and John cleared his throat.

Sherlock spun around, his cheeks flushed red. His stroking stopped as his jaw dropped open and he spluttered wordlessly. John stood just inside the door, hands clasped behind his back, feet apart, spine straight. He regarded Sherlock deliberately, his eyes sweeping slowly from their grip on Sherlock’s own, down over his chest, past his stomach to the achingly hard cock still gripped in his hand. John walked slowly over and gripped Sherlock’s bicep under the short sleeve of his olive green t-shirt. John sauntered past, eyes on Sherlock’s own, releasing his grip to drag his fingernails across Sherlock’s erect nipples, making him shiver with arousal. He caught Sherlock’s other bicep in his grip and turned the younger man round so he was facing the chair. John sat down, hips canted forwards and legs spread wide, his eyes never leaving Sherlock’s.

“Carry on,” he said softly. Sherlock was mortified, he thought he might die of shame, but he couldn’t deny he was extremely aroused at the thought of the captain watching him. He ducked his head, not sure what to do, when John spoke again.

“That was an order.”

Sherlock looked up from under his eyelashes, his eyes flitting from John’s face to the large bulge at his crotch and back to his face again. Almost as though his actions were not under his own control, Sherlock began to stroke his erection, which was now almost purple and straining; John simply sat in the chair, watching. Sherlock’s eyes were fixed on John, the longer he sat there, watching, the more aroused Sherlock became, but he couldn’t tip over the edge.

“Faster.” The instruction was delivered quietly; a casual observer might think John was not affected at all by the sight in front of him, but that was not the case. The rough fabric of his fatigue trousers was damp and straining from his erection, but he was disciplined, hands laid on his thighs, unmoving. Sherlock obeyed, the tone of command in John’s voice unmistakable, and Sherlock was powerless to resist it. As his hand moved faster along his shaft, Sherlock’s expression became more frustrated; he needed something…more.

“Come here.” Sherlock stepped forwards, and as soon as he was within range, John reached out for Sherlock’s hips, pulling him forwards to straddle one of John’s thighs.

“Did I tell you to stop?” That soft, commanding voice seemed to be wired directly to Sherlock’s hand, which started moving again of its own accord. John leaned forwards and reached his hand up to caress Sherlock’s lips, dragging the bottom of his cupid’s bow down to part them, then slipping his middle finger inside Sherlock’s warm wetness. Sherlock’s eyes closed as he began to lick and suck on John’s finger, like a starving man given his first taste of food. After a few moments, John pulled his finger from Sherlock’s mouth with a small “pop” and pulled Sherlock’s camo trousers and pants down as far as he could without Sherlock needing to move his legs any closer together. John slid his hand under Sherlock’s balls, and slipped his finger into the warm crevice, seeking. He found the puckered ring of muscle and gently but firmly pushed his wet finger inside. Suddenly Sherlock was coming, spasming round John’s finger, panting, semen jetting from his cock. He tried to catch as much as he could, but a couple of spots landed on John’s thigh. Sherlock watched as John scraped them up with his index finger and carried them up to his mouth, popping the finger inside and sucking it with relish. John pushed the chair back and stood up, never breaking eye contact with Sherlock.

He softly cupped Sherlock’s face in his hand.

“I found another file that had been missed, here you go,” he said gently.

“I’ll see you in my office at eight o’clock, to see how you’re getting on, okay?” he said gently, waiting for Sherlock’s nod of acquiescence before placing the file on the desk and leaving the room, closing the door quietly behind him. Sherlock tried to catch his breath and put himself back in order, and a couple of minutes later was sitting back at his desk, going over the files again. His mind began to drift as he looked at the names in front of him; Pugh, Davies, Westbury, Blake, Smith, Minchin and the new one, Anderson. He tried to concentrate, but his mind kept drifting back, he kept hearing John saying, “faster.” Sherlock shook his head, frustrated.

“Oh for God’s sake!” he burst out, but the word kept swirling around and around in his head. In the space between one second and the next, something fell into place. Sherlock grabbed for the statements given by the six men whose files he had examined earlier in the day, scanning rapidly for the times they had last been seen before the thefts, and the times they were next seen after them. None of the men had been out of the camp between the discovery of the thefts and the search of their lockers. He was able to rule out five of the remaining seven, as the amount of time between those two sightings was not nearly enough time for them to have left the camp and disposed of the stolen items. That left two, Westbury and Anderson. In theory, there was enough time for either one of them to have left the camp and made it into town… but it would depend on a couple of factors, and Sherlock did not have that information yet. He laid the files down on the desk, and left the office to have a hot shower, before heading to John’s office.

Twenty-hundred hours: Sherlock knocked softly on John’s door, and without waiting for a response, pushed it open. John looked up from his work and smiled, his eyes softening as he saw who it was. Sherlock strode straight over to the desk, leaned over and kissed John hard. John stood, grabbing Sherlock’s t-shirt in both fists and kissing him back. He licked at the seam of Sherlock’s lips, demanding entry, which was granted, the kiss becoming more heated and passionate, until John reluctantly straightened, feathering kisses on Sherlock’s lips.

“How did you get on?” he asked.

“I’ve narrowed it down to two people, but it depends what vehicles they have access to. I should be able to let you know in the morning.”

“Then let's get together at 12, when everyone goes for lunch?”

“I’ll look forward to it,” Sherlock growled, and John knew there would be more than lunch on the menu...


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finishes his investigation and works out who the guilty party is... John is a BAMF....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks as always to Catherine, for being my lovely beta, and for pointing out John's feelings about Sherlock's misfortune....

Eleven-hundred hours: Sherlock made his way to the garage, where a few men and a woman were working on some of the camp’s vehicles. He was taking a bit of a risk, being away from his group, but John wanted a name by lunchtime. He quickly ascertained that Anderson was not there; his picture had been in the files that Sherlock had seen; he had a weasley face, scraggly beard and glasses, and nobody in the garage looked like that. Sherlock wandered over to the group working on an old Land Rover and stopped next to a tall, blonde, oil covered young man with his head under the bonnet.

“Hey mate,” he said, adopting an Essex accent in the hopes of blending in, “I was chattin’ with some of the lads about gettin’ a car, and they said Anderson was the man to talk to, that right?” The head waggled from side to side, then emerged from the depths of the engine.

“Well… I suppose he’s pretty good, but then we all know our stuff, or we wouldn’t be working here. He’s just got the reputation because he’s been here the longest.” Clearly the man felt Anderson’s reputation was not justified.

Sherlock pasted a look of interest on his face.

“I’m Watkins, by the way,” Sherlock said. “I need to get something decent, something that won’t show me up in front of the lads. What are you drivin’?” 

“Westbury,” the man replied with an affable grin, offering an oily hand for Sherlock to shake, much to his chagrin. Westbury indicated towards the Land Rover the group were working on.

“This is mine, we work on it when we’ve got nothing else to do.”

“It looks like it’s in good nick, was it expensive?” Sherlock offered, tilting his head to one side.

“I got a cracking deal on it when I bought it, mainly because it needed a lot of work. But then I split up with the wife, and between the alimony and the child support… I got done for speeding when I was trying to see my little girl, so my insurance went through the roof. Then the radiator went and I couldn’t afford to get it fixed; you know what this place is like, not exactly millionaire’s wages… That prick Anderson could’ve helped me fix it, but he’s such an arse… He doesn’t like me, so he won’t lift a finger… That’s why we work on it in our spare time, everyone gets something out of the deal. I get help on the motor that doesn’t cost me a fortune, they get to look busy!”

“Doesn’t anyone mind?” asked Sherlock quizzically.

“Nah mate, we have a couple of these on the base, so it gives the newbies a bit of practice. The bosses are fine with it, providing I pay for my spare parts, which suits me as it’s always the labour costs that kill you… You can get a bargain on Ebay these days!”

“What about Anderson, what’s he driving?” interrupted Sherlock.

“Ah, he’s got a classic, lovely motor. The R33 GTR Nissan Skyline. 0 – 60 in 5 seconds flat, top speed limited to 155 miles an hour…” Westbury’s eyes turned a little misty as he described the car.

Sherlock feigned interest, allowing him to chatter on until there was an appropriate moment to interrupt.

“Oh shit, I was supposed to see Captain Watson at 11:00, I’m gonna be in so much trouble!” He said goodbye to Westbury and rushed out of the garage, once out of sight heading to the car park to check out Anderson’s car.

Sherlock found the Skyline. It was near the front of the car park, sleek and shining, clearly loved by its owner. Despite this, Sherlock could see signs of engine work that had not been completed quite right; a repair to the bodywork that had paint bubbling over the top, signifying rust coming through underneath. For all Anderson’s reputation as a top mechanic, it was clear that he didn’t deserve it.

Sherlock dropped down on one knee, looking underneath the car, seeing that the ground underneath was wet. It had rained the previous night, so Sherlock knew the car must have been running overnight at the very least. That didn’t necessarily mean it had been used to take its owner to town to sell stolen goods, but it didn’t rule Anderson out either.

Sherlock made his way to John’s office, knocked at the door and waited.

“Come in!” John’s voice answered, and Sherlock went in.

“Sherlock…. You knocked… Are you feeling ill?” John joked. Sherlock smiled the tight smile that meant he wasn’t amused, and threw himself into the chair opposite John.

“I’ve got it narrowed down to two people, I’ll know for sure which one it is once I’ve spoken to the second man.”

“Who are the candidates?” John asked, leaning back in his chair and crossing one leg over the other.

“Westbury and Anderson.”

“Oh yeah, I know Anderson, he’s a bit of a dick by all accounts.” Sherlock raised his eyebrows; John was such a stickler for professionalism that Anderson must be bad if John had used that kind of language.

“Yes, well he’s the prime suspect right now. I don’t think Westbury’s involved in this, but he’s certainly involved in something,” Sherlock steepled his fingers beneath his chin.

“You’ve talked to Westbury?” John asked.

“I saw him first, I’ve just come from the garage. Anderson wasn’t there, and I need to talk to him to know for sure if he’s the one.”

John pushed back his chair and stood, tugging his shirt down, “let’s go and talk to Anderson then.”

After a quick phone call, John lead Sherlock to one of the training rooms where Anderson was sitting, going through a pile of papers.

“Captain Watson!” he said, leaping to his feet and dropping his glasses on the table.

“Sit down, Anderson,” John said, “we just want a quick word.”

Sherlock looked coldly at Anderson, saying, “there’s no need Captain, Anderson was the thief. It’s obvious from the new designer glasses he’s wearing.”

“So?” said Anderson in surprise. “I’ve got new glasses, what of it?”

“Oh Anderson,” Sherlock sneered, “no wonder you’ve been caught, I’m amazed you can manage to get dressed in the mornings without assistance! I know your glasses are new because I can see the marks behind your ears from where you haven't got used to them yet. The fact that your glasses are new means you must have only just bought them, so you must have got them locally, and I know that there’s only one optician in the local area you could have got them from. Oh, and this particular design is £400 for the frames alone. Where did you get the money from? I know you don’t have savings, because of the botch job you’ve been doing with your car. It’s obvious from the polishing that it’s your pride and joy, so if you’d got the money you’d have had the rust sorted out and the paintwork done properly, but you can’t, can you? Or people will ask where you got the money; everyone knows you’re broke. Glasses are easy, nobody pays attention to those unless they wear them too, and nobody in the garage does. You probably told them you got them from the value range at Tesco.”

Anderson had been steadily growing angrier as Sherlock spoke. Suddenly he rushed at Sherlock, taking him by surprise and knocking him over the table to the floor. His hands pressed into Sherlock’s throat and squeezed. Sherlock had the height advantage, but was lean, whereas Anderson’s rage gave him strength. Sherlock instantly began to go red as Anderson crushed his windpipe, cutting off his air. 

John reacted quickly, leaping over the desk and forcing Anderson into a headlock. He wrenched one of Anderson’s arms back painfully, allowing Sherlock to escape his grip. For a moment, Anderson fought back, until John shoved him to the floor face first, and dropped heavily on his back, knocking the wind from him. 

“Don’t.” John snarled, “Do not move, Anderson, or so help me God, I’ll rip your arm off.” 

Anderson stilled immediately. Someone had evidently heard the commotion, because a couple of moments later, Lestrade and Donovan ran into the room.

“This is your thief,” John said to Lestrade, “and you can add assault to the charges.” He indicated Sherlock, who had managed to sit up, but was still on the floor, his throat red and angry looking, breath wheezing.

Lestrade cuffed Anderson, and he and Donovan marched him away, arranging to come to get Sherlock’s statement in the morning, when he’d had a chance to recover a little. John looked at Sherlock, who was still sitting on the floor like a floppy rag doll. He smiled as John looked over at him.

“Hungry?” John asked.

“Starving,” Sherlock grinned.

Eighteen-hundred hours: “So what’s the deal with Westbury then?” John asked, as they tucked into some Chinese takeaway in his office.

“Ahh, Westbury…” Sherlock’s voice was still husky, but it didn’t seem to bother him, and John was absolutely sure he didn’t mind either.

“I knew he was up to something, the signs of guilt were written all over him. It turns out he was swapping decent parts from the Army’s Land Rovers with worn out parts from his own, then requisitioning new parts from stores. Nobody questioned anything because the new parts were put on the Army’s vehicles, not on his, and he claimed to be buying the parts for his own vehicle through Ebay. Nobody seemed to think it was strange that the Landies were burning through so many parts either, probably because Westbury was in charge of requisitioning. It was very clever, really.”

John nodded, chewing slowly. They finished their meal in companionable silence, neither feeling the need to fill it with small talk. When they were finished eating, they sat together, drinking tea that John had made using the kettle in the corner of his office.

“So… You’ve solved your first case. How do you feel?” John asked, as Sherlock sipped at his tea. He smiled back at John shyly.

“It was great, I could see myself doing it again… do you think there’s any way of making a living out of it?”

“I’m sure there are people out there that need the help of a consulting detective and don’t want to get the police involved…” John grinned. “You’ll have to come back in a few months and tell me how you’re getting on, you’ve only got a few days left here.” For a moment there was silence between the two of them.

“Would you really want me to come back?” Sherlock asked quietly.

John’s blue eyes stared directly back into Sherlock’s green ones.

“What do you think?” he asked.


	6. Epilogue

Three months later...

Twenty-hundred hours: Captain John Watson walked down the corridor towards his office, eyes flicking over the names on his clipboard. He was pleased with the way this new batch of lads was working out. There were a couple that he thought had the potential to be problematic, but on the whole, they seemed to be a good bunch of lads, if a little misguided.

“Of course,” he thought wryly “if they weren’t misguided, they wouldn’t be here in the first place!” He turned the corner, approaching the door, and stopped abruptly. The door was already ajar.

As John entered the dimly lit room, he saw a figure standing by the filing cabinets, a piece of thin wire in his hand which was catching the light thrown off by the small desk lamp. John flicked on the light switch, and Sherlock turned from the cabinets, a smirk on his face. John’s first thought was that those camo trousers looked as good as ever, and his second was that Sherlock’s exercise regime was obviously working well, as his arms and chest were beautifully toned, filling out his olive t-shirt nicely.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” John growled, his voice thick with lust, and he stalked across the office to where Sherlock was standing. Sherlock grinned, remembering the last time John had asked that question. He poked the wire into the lock at the top of the filing cabinet, eyes never leaving John’s. He smirked as he wiggled the wire, knowing full well the lock would not open and the files would be safe. John grinned back; he understood the game Sherlock was playing, and he was more than happy to play along.

“I told you before, those files are private,” John smiled lazily, twisting his key in the lock of the door behind him and walking slowly over to Sherlock. John gripped the back of Sherlock’s neck with his right hand, and Sherlock’s left wrist with his left hand. Moving quickly, he pulled Sherlock forwards, spun him round and planted him face down on the desk. Sherlock let out a breathy moan, and rubbed the fingers of his free hand along John’s thigh as high as he could, his knuckles grazing John’s balls.

John rolled his hips, pushing his erection firmly into the plump cheeks of Sherlock’s arse. “Don’t you think you’re in enough trouble already?” he drawled, his voice rough. John allowed his hands to drift over Sherlock’s sides, down to his waistband, where they hooked in the top of Sherlock’s waistband. He pulled sharply, dragging Sherlock’s groin clear of the top of the desk and straight into John’s hard length.

“Please…” Sherlock moaned, eyes squeezed shut and breath coming fast. John slid his hand round to the front of Sherlock’s trousers and popped the button open. He slipped his hand just inside Sherlock’s waistband, fingers brushing over Sherlock’s hot skin, making his breath catch. Sherlock moaned again, thrusting his hips back against John’s groin. Slowly, John dragged Sherlock’s zip down, spreading the two halves of the fabric, then yanked the trousers down to Sherlock’s knees. A small bottle fell from Sherlock’s pocket, and John turned his head quickly to see what it was. He picked up the little bottle, smiling when he saw it was lube.

“Oh, I see,” he said softly, “you thought you were going to be directing things this evening, did you?” John rubbed his hand over the black fabric of Sherlock’s tight fitting underwear, before smacking the plump buttock with a loud crack! that made Sherlock gasp and moan and arch his back to push his arse into the air. John grinned, and tugged Sherlock’s underwear down past the swell of his buttocks. Keeping one hand firmly on the small of Sherlock’s back, John rubbed his fingers along the crease of Sherlock’s arse, raising his eyebrows when he discovered Sherlock was already well lubricated and open for him. John slid two fingers inside Sherlock’s warm hole, listening to the filthy sounds coming from Sherlock’s lips as he tried to push himself further onto John’s fingers.

John unzipped his trousers, pulling his rock hard cock from inside his red pants. He uncapped the bottle, drizzling some lube onto his palm, and slicked himself up. John lined his cock up with Sherlock’s hole, and slid straight inside in one smooth thrust. “God Sherlock…” he hissed, gritting his teeth and stilling his hips to prevent himself coming immediately. Sherlock wailed, trying to thrust against John’s unmoving weight.

“Please, John!” John finally felt he had calmed enough to know that he wouldn’t embarrass himself, and started to move his hips, gently at first, but quickly getting harder and harder.

“You’re a bad man, Sherlock Holmes,” he grunted, snapping his hips and thrusting his cock into Sherlock’s warmth. He reached under Sherlock, taking his cock into his fist and making the younger man groan in pleasure. Each thrust of John’s hips pushed Sherlock’s cock through the tight ring of John’s fist, and it wasn’t long until Sherlock was orgasming, jets of come painting the desk and the floor beneath him. John felt the pulse of his muscles around his cock, and quickly followed him over the edge, emptying himself deep inside his lover.

The two men took a few moments to get their breath back, and then John slowly and carefully slid himself out of Sherlock’s arse, watching, a little dribble of come slipping out before he closed up tightly. John tucked himself away, zipping his trousers up again, and looked at Sherlock with a smile. He was still draped over John’s desk, panting.

“You could have waited half an hour, and I’d have been home, Sherlock….”


End file.
